


I Am A Robot

by ladyofdecember



Category: Venture Bros RPF
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Depression, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Male Friendship, Male Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:51:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofdecember/pseuds/ladyofdecember
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doc thinks about their relationship and the direction it is heading.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Doc Hammer & Jackson Publick are real people however this is a work of fiction and all events, dialogue and situations are extremely fictional and do not necessarily reflect any real life happenings or events that may or may not occur. This is a work of Real Person Fiction but is entirely fictional and exists in a fictional universe.

He hates him. He really does.

No. He sighs. That's a lie. He loves him.

He moves to ash his cigarette into one of the many ash trays that litter the AstroBase studio. He loves him so much sometimes he thinks he may die from the very feeling. 

Jackson Publick. A pseudonym. Well, that just says it all, now doesn't it? He doesn't even use his real name when he interacts with the public. He's afraid, like a little child, he thinks bitterly.

Doc coughs harshly and has to spit into a trash can nearby. He's been smoking for too long. But he's afraid that if he quits now he will find out that he has cancer and be given some spew of 6 months to live or some damn cliché like that. He doesn't want to deal with it.

No, he has no choice but to keep smoking just like he has for the last 14 or so years. It's the only thing keeping him alive, he lies and tells himself. He lies to himself all the time, always has. He believes his own lies he decides and that is why it is so important that he keeps it up. To stay alive.

But back to 'Jackson'. He hates him, Doc nods to himself and takes another drag on his cigarette. He moves to perch on the edge of his desk in the cold, empty studio.

Where is he now? Probably off with that girlfriend of his. What's her name? This one's name? Who cares? He's had so many. Doc tells himself that he doesn't care. He reminds himself that it doesn't matter.

He tells himself he doesn't care. And so he doesn't, he shrugs to himself. He can do all the work himself. That's fine. He's used to that anyway.

He works better alone. Empty and alone. Just his coffee and his cigarettes to keep him company.

Maybe he should work on something for the band, he thinks suddenly. It's like a cartoon light bulb has just lit up above his head. He quickly takes another drag of the cigarette staring at nothing but empty space on the far wall. He's got a great idea for a song inspired by none other than... who do you think?

Who else inspires him? Who does he hang out with? Who does he talk to and go out to eat with or buy cigarettes for or coffee or even take walks in the park with?

Who else?

He fucking hates him. He tries to believe it. Really tries hard.

Doc puts out the cigarette harshly in one of the ash trays and stands there in the middle of the tiny room. He sighs deeply, sighs one of those sighs full of regrets and wasted years. One filled to the brink with sadness.

No... he doesn't feel sad, remember? Doc Hammer doesn't feel anything. He's a soulless robot. He's a robot. And he's used to that idea.

He puts on music. He doesn't care what it is, isn't really sure what it is. He just leans down towards Jackson's computer and hits play on the iTunes program to shuffle the songs so it plays some random song in the library playlist.

And then he stands there, in the middle of the cold, dark, lonely room and just stares into space some more. He barely registers hearing the melody pouring out from the tiny, slightly muffled speakers.

He must have complained about those speakers at least a thousand times but as always it just fell upon deaf ears. Just like all of his complaints do. And hell... even when he's not complaining but simply giving his opinion or even a request they always fall upon deaf ears. Always.

He's used to it, he nods to himself. It's fine. Doc Hammer doesn't feel anything. He's a soulless robot.

It's 4:31 PM on a Tuesday. It's cold. And he's alone.

He swallows suddenly blinking back tears that have come about for seemingly no reason. He's not sure why he's crying. What possible reason could he have for the tears? There's so many reasons why but he can't pinpoint which one it exactly is.

Everything is so... so shitty lately.

He barely breathes as silent tears roll down his cheeks. Maybe he should be more alert. Maybe he should at least turn away from the door to the AstroBase just in case Jackson comes barreling through like he's wont to do. He wouldn't want him to see him crying.

Oh yes... but that's not likely to happen today. No, not today, nor tomorrow.

Doc probably won't see him again until Thursday evening in fact. He could stand here for hours without fear of being caught.

He hates him. He really does. He's lying and he just can't get himself to believe it no matter how hard he tries.

He loves him too much. Way, way too much. And it's terrifying. My god, is it terrifying.

Pulling out another cigarette he sits down at his desk, in his chair this time, like a proper adult would. He should get to work writing... something. There's plenty of work to be done.

What about that song that he'd suddenly been inspired to write? No matter, it's gone now anyway. Inspiration gone having disintegrated in his weary mind. He puffs at his cigarette agitated. Swallowing, he shakes his head a bit to try to clear his mind.

He doesn't like feeling things. But, no matter what Jackson does to him, no matter how he makes him feel or how many times he abandons him and his feelings, he will always love him and always do whatever he asks of him.

This is why at 4:51 PM on a cold Tuesday afternoon in the city, he sits alone at the AstroBase typing up a script for their show.

Doc Hammer doesn't feel anything. He's a soulless robot. He's a robot. And he's used to that idea.


	2. Chapter 2

Doc Hammer would never contemplate suicide. Suicide is for pussies.

It may sound harsh but the very idea of it is absurd.

People who have given up all hope feel that the answer to their problems is dying? Hello?! If you're dead, that doesn't solve your problem. He doesn't care what that problem is exactly. Being dead does not mean you've solved your problem, it just means you no longer have to deal with it, not that'd you'd know seeing as you're dead and all. If you're dead you can't feel, you don't have opinions on things. You can't even enjoy the relationships you have. You're dead. That's it. Game over.

How can people think by killing themselves that that will magically fix their problems?

He exhales the smoke from his lungs and shakes his head to get rid of the thought. Ashing his cigarette into one of the nearby ashtrays he turns to look over his shoulder at his red haired companion. There he is, sitting at his computer just staring, staring at his computer screen. The cursor blinks idly, mocking him. He ironically doesn't blink in return. He just stares back at it, seemingly catatonic and completely emotionless.

He is emotionless, Doc thinks. He's the robot. I do have feelings, goddammit. The absence of feelings due to hurt pride does not a robot make.

He takes another drag off of his cigarette and stands, crossing the small space over to his own computer and desk. He throws himself into the seat startling the previously immobile writer next to him.

Jackson turns and looks at him with a humorous smile playing on his lips. He gives Doc a good-natured sort of giddy look and then returns to his staring contest with the word processor.

Nothing can discourage Jackson Publick once he has his mind set to something. Nothing. No one can distract him. Not even Doc. And if anyone could, it'd be him. Not that girlfriend of his, whatever her name is. Whatever this one's name is.

He laughs derisively at his own thoughts and inhales once more the sweet, sweet drug that is the cigarette's smoke to his lungs. He should get to work, he thinks at once and opens up a word processor as well.

It was going to be another one of those nights, Doc sighed.


End file.
